


i could write a book about the things that you said to me on the pillow

by elicul



Series: don't make promises to me that you're gonna break [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Canon Trans Character, Character Study, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elicul/pseuds/elicul
Summary: Sure, Ian's heard talk of "the queer community," but it had never really been his bag. He fucked who he liked and minded his business so long as everyone else minded theirs. Someone in his bed and a stay-in-your-lane attitude had gotten him this far. He didn't need anything more than that.Trevor, of course, is more than that.*When they’d first met, Trevor had made a toast, “to guys who like to be watched.”I like to be watched.Then this one’s for you, baby.And, god, tonight had been so full of “baby”’s. Trevor couldn’t stop, his eyes undressed Ian all night, words complimentary, hands constantly roving.He’s gorgeous.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Trevor, lip gallagher/sierra (mentioned)
Series: don't make promises to me that you're gonna break [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688161
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	1. songs of desperation

**Author's Note:**

> heed tags. this is mostly a relationship study/character study of trevor who i felt didn't get enough screen time where he was talking about himself. so, fix-it was in order. it'll follow the plot of the show, this is more just the between scenes stuff. 
> 
> Update: third and final chapter will be posted tomorrow (April 4) and then this'll become part of a series (this being the first part, pre-Ian going to Mexico with Mickey, then the second part running through until they wrote Trevor out of the show) i'll adjust tags accordingly at some point.

“How come you always sleep half dressed?”

Ian never thinks he’s asked a serious question until he hears Trevor’s answering sigh.

They’re in bed in Lip’s room on an increasingly-often night that Lip’s with Sierra. The fan swings threateningly from the ceiling on its highest setting, making the light bounce just enough that it’s starting to give Ian a headache.

He gets headaches easily, now. It’s worse in the summers. When he’s sweaty all the time. The lady at the clinic keeps reminding him he’s probably dehydrated from his lithium. If he drinks water, ups his salt intake a little, the headaches will go away. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead, starts towards shutting off the light, but Trevor is laying on his chest and doesn’t seem to notice the aborted gesture.

He’s got a far-away look in his eye. Lip gets that same stare. When shit’s really hitting the fan. As he works out what to do. Ian has to consciously stop himself from saying, “oh,” when he notices it.

“Trev?”

“I, uh. I don’t like the scars.”

This time, Ian gives in to his stupidity. He reaches out and traces one of the thick bands of scar tissue across Trevor's chest. "Oh."

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re better than the tits were.” He smiles a little, playing at his usual controlled teasing.

“I’ll bet,” Ian says, sheepish, but serious.

Trevor lets out a shaky breath, almost like a laugh. His fingers swirl idly around Ian’s chest. “I don’t hate them, or anything. The scars. I sometimes wish I’d been born looking like a dude to begin with, and other times I don’t.”

Ian just listens. Trevor is always teaching and explaining things for him, but this isn’t that. It’s not definitions and politics. It’s just Trevor.

“What I mean is, I don’t hate my body anymore. And that’s really nice. It’s not something I was sure I was ever gonna have. Like, I have a very obviously trans body, and I like it. It’s a good body.“

“It is,” Ian says, not to interrupt, but to echo.

Trevor’s not upset, but the conversation is sobering. Sounds like he’s thinking out loud, like these thoughts might be new, or, at least, unvoiced until tonight. He doesn’t look up at Ian, just alternately at his hand on Ian’s chest, and off into the middle distance. 

He does smile, a little, at Ian's interjection, but almost reflexively, more than out of genuine amusement. The silence wears on. 

“Sorry.”

“No,” Trevor says, "I’m- yeah. Sorry. I’m trying to figure out what I’m trying to say.”

While he gathers his thoughts, Ian lets his eyes slip closed. The light is really bothering him. He lays quietly. And he really, really doesn’t mean to, but he falls asleep.

In the morning, he forgets that this is where their conversation dropped off, but it’s okay. Trevor never quite found the right words to say anyway. 

* * *

_Boystown tonight??_

_?i’m down. hopping? or a bar in particular_

_Was thinking the fairy tale? We haven’t been there yet._

_p:_

_Why do you text like a forty year old man?_

_had a flip-phone for too long. never got the hang of emojis_

_So… no fairy tale?_

_rather not. used to work there, not all that tempted_ _to go back_

_Oooh? Do tell???  
_

_later. meet at my place? i’m off at 10_

* * *

There’s blue glitter in Trevor’s hair and he’s gorgeous.

It sparkles in the sheen of sweat across his forehead. They’re both drunk, having accepted shots from some older men who’d been hoping for a wild night. And they’d both flirted, expertly, every sentence drenched in expectations and desire, even if it was only for the sport of it.

Trevor had hung all over Ian on the dance floor, arm wrapped around the back of his neck to hold his balance against Ian’s sturdy form. Which was new for Ian. He’s not used to being the buoy, always too messy and turbulent himself, the one a little too frantic and lit up and high.

Tonight, he got a turn at managing. Corralling. Keeping Trevor out of trouble as best as he can, because he seems to have needed tonight to be about letting loose. Letting his hair down. He laughed near manically while they danced together, hands grasping and tugging at every inch of one another they could reach, leaning back into the other men on the crowded dance floor.

Back when they’d first met, Trevor had made a toast, “to guys who like to be watched.”

_I like to be watched._

_Then this one’s for you, baby._

And, god, tonight had been so full of “baby”’s. Trevor couldn’t stop, his eyes undressed Ian all night, words complimentary, hands constantly roving. His desire is raw and urgent and he’s gorgeous.

They slip out of the club when they find a moment alone, running out the front door and into the night, hysterical. It's freezing outside, and they both hadn’t bothered with jackets, not wanting to be weighed down all night.

Their heaving breaths come out in thick clouds of steam. Trevor can’t run as fast as Ian. Sober, he'd have worried that it's always going to be a fight, to try to keep up with Ian. He'd always risk getting left behind. But, tonight, wasted, he doesn't worry. They keep a firm grip on each other’s hand and sprint down the block.

They don't slow down until they make it to the next district, Ian’s feet mindlessly bringing them back towards the Loop, back home to the South Side, letting the few downtown taxis pass by; he blew all his pocket money on drinks and the dancers. The L ride back is a blur of Trevor's murmured filth and indecent hands, of Ian trying to keep up some sense of decorum.

They’re near frozen, but still sparkling with sweat when they barrel into the living room, limbs tangled as Trevor grabs him, mid-fall, to kiss him.

It’s fucking primal, Trevor’s need tonight. Demanding. Hot. Gorgeous.

“Upstairs,” Ian suggests, voice low against Trevor’s mouth.

He whines, almost petulant, his body a hard line against Ian’s. “I want you.”

“Upstairs,” he insists, backing up towards the stairs.

He trips up the second one and they tumble down in a mix of mouths and hands and Trevor’s packer against Ian’s thigh. He laughs at Trevor’s impatience, at their drunken balance.

Trevor collapses down against Ian’s chest, his ear just over his thumping heart. He sighs affectionately, hips working slow but determined circles. “Want you,” he mutters.

Ian bucks his own hips up to motivate Trevor off of him. They won’t get anywhere laying on the stairs like this, and Ian’s never been modest, but he’s not really interested in getting caught by one of his siblings.

“Oh, you wanna fuck me?”

Trevor practically growls, teeth nipping and lips searching against Ian’s jaw, his ear.

Ian shudders. “Get up,” he demands.

Trevor presses his weight harder against Ian, all angry want and defiance. He grinds down one more time against Ian’s thigh, then jumps up and bounds up the stairs. Ian scrabbles to his feet and darts after him.

Ian catches him by his belt loop just before he banks right into Ian’s room. “Lip’s out.”

Trevor whips around and throws himself against Ian again.

Ian’s hands yank at Trevor’s shirt, not to pull it off, but just to have hands on him. He lowers his hands, gripping hard against Trevor's ass, slipping down to bruise at his thighs, and Trevor leaps, legs wrapping around Ian’s waist, holding firm. The weight of him is easy to bear, feels natural, even as Trevor squirms and paws uninhibited and drunk and

He's gorgeous.

Ian holds the banister to get them up the last two steps, teeters down the hallway with his fingertips brushing the walls. Trevor’s arms loosen from around his neck, and Ian throws him back onto the bed.

Trevor looks desperate, hungry, and Ian knows he can’t look much more decent himself. He feels the prickling shape of Trevor’s mouth drying against his neck, his collar bone. He pulls out of his shirt fluidly. Trevor sits up and throws his shirt off, leans back, bites his lips, eyes roving.

“Fuck,” Ian can’t help but say. Then, he changes course. “Fuck me.”

Trevor beckons him forward with a teasing finger, and Ian goes. Hands find belts, buttons, zippers. Trevor shoves him onto his back and gets up to flick off the lights, fumbles around in the dark for a long, agonizing and anticipation-building moment, then flops back onto the bed already naked but for a harness. Ian is quick to join him, pulling out of his socks and boxers.

“How do you want me?”

“On your knees.”

Ian clambers onto all fours. Trevor claws and kisses at his back and shoulders, right hand working his dick slick with lube. He leans close to Ian.

“Lower,” he says, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

Ian knocks himself down to his elbows and Trevor gives him an appreciative, hard bite in the muscle of his shoulder. He cries out, letting his head hang down, trying to stifle his surprise. Trevor laughs, an edge of mocking in his voice.

Trevor fucks him hard, if a little unevenly, pace slipping in his drunken haste. Ian surprised himself, with how much he likes to be manhandled by Trevor. Something quick and bruising, roughness bordering on the impersonal because Trevor knows him, knows his limits and edges up right to them. There's something freeing in giving yourself over entirely to an unrestrained fuck, because, that's just it. It isn't careless or painful just for the sake. It's something strangely trusting that Ian hadn't even known he wanted all along.

Trevor keeps his fingers wrapped around Ian’s hips, pulling him back with every thrust, unrelentingly rough and bruising until Ian is biting into his own forearm to keep from shouting, letting low moans escape just to keep Trevor apprised of how he’s doing.

He comes with his fingers desperately kneading at the sheets— his nails would have broken the skin of his palms if he hadn’t held them. Then he relaxes, letting the carefully held slope of his back collapse, rising back up onto his hands as Trevor pulls out.

He doesn’t allow himself a single moment to breathe, has to be touching Trevor again. He throws the damp sheet to the floor, turns and sucks at Trevor's jaw and chin and mouth, hands automatically finding themselves tugging at the closures on the harness. It loosens enough to slip to the floor.

He pulls Trevor properly into the bed, underneath him, dying to kiss his way down his chest, nudge suggestively at Trevor’s junk, asking, begging him to let him use his mouth.

But, suddenly, Trevor seems less focused. His movements slow, hands fumble, eyes dart around.

He places his hand on Ian's chest like an unspoken ask to pause. He reaches towards the edge of the bed as if to scoop up the soiled sheets, as if to cover himself, but ultimately he gives up and lies back.

Ian isn't sure what to make of it.

He kisses Trevor again, but Trevor just takes it, passively.

“Don’t you want me to-” he tries.

“I’m okay,” Trevor says. He smiles, as if to reassure Ian, but it looks kinda sad.

“Something wrong?” Ian kisses just below Trevor’s ear. Trevor squirms away, but he’s smiling properly again, a little ticklish and bashful.

“I’m good with what we did,” he says.

Ian’s above him, arms braced on either side of Trevor’s shoulders, one knee dug into the bed while his other leg lingers lamely between Trevor’s, lost in its pursuit of balance.

“You sure? I can grab the strap. The other one, I mean." Ian keeps a neon purple dick in his bedside drawer in his room. Trevor is rarely without his backpack, but they'd bought it together in an overpriced sex shop downtown. Just in case. "I could blow you? I know you like that.”

Ian’s smirking again, not trying to force anything, the back of his mind is searching desperately for the possible cause of the hesitation while his words try to save face.

He doesn’t get what happened. Trevor seemed maddeningly horny not twenty minutes ago. What did he do wrong?

Ian leans down and kisses him. It’s soft. Loving. His own lips are sore from Trevor’s abuse of them, probably bright and swollen. 

He shifts his weight, trying to find a place to rest his other leg, accepting Trevor’s fingers swirling idly along his shoulders, his tender kisses. But as his knee shifts over Trevor’s thigh, he feels his skin catch, as if against sandpaper.

He rests his knee just next to Trevor’s thigh, shifting his weight to the right and he feels the sensation again, as his skin scrapes against Trevor’s.

Every muscle in Ian’s body grinds to a halt. He hovers over him. “Trev?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, breath hot against Ian’s mouth before he goes back to kissing him, as if suddenly renewed in energy.

This time, though, it's Ian who barely reacts. Trevor cycles rapidly through expressions, almost scared, then wildly vulnerable, then pissed. He stops kissing Ian, pushes at Ian's waist in an attempt to push him off, but Ian is frozen in place.

Trevor slumps back with a petulant huff, seeming like someone who's accepted their fate.

He shifts himself lower on the bed with a tentative but clear movement, so his mouth is about level with Trevor’s collarbone. He slips a hand between their bodies, reaching blindly for Trevor's thigh.

At his touch, his suspicions are confirmed. His fingers lock around Trevor’s leg.

Ian processes quietly, thinking over all the times he and Trevor have had sex, have lounged naked (or, he realizes, _mostly_ naked) in bed together.

But, he's touched here before, surely? As he learned how to give Trevor head, touch his junk? It’d been dark, sure. Lights off, under covers, his focus pulled to learning how sex can be so different and still good. But he can’t have missed this, can he?

He stays frozen, grip tightening to cover the scabs he can feel— too afraid to look— then softening, his fingertips flitting against the lines. Some are definitive scars, healed and raised and puckered skin. Some are the rough feeling of skinned knees, picked-at and bumpy. 

He tries to catch Trevor’s gaze, sure that his own face is open and pleading, but Trevor’s shut his eyes, sunk back into the pillow in defeat.

Ian’s afraid to let go. To move. His arm supporting his weight starts to tremble.

Trevor’s eyes open, but he stares blankly up at the ceiling, unseeing. His breath comes hard through his nose, making his nostrils flare like when he’s really pissed off. It’s endearing, usually, to see Trevor so passionate, but not now. Ian lets his hip fall so he’s half-hovering, half-laying on top of Trevor. He can’t pull his hand away, leaves it, not grasping, but covering the cuts. He won’t look down. He won’t.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Trevor says, his monotonous, clever cadence somehow even flatter than usual.

“Okay.”

Trevor closes his eyes again. Shakily, Ian tries to pry his hand from Trevor’s thigh, but it’s like it won’t cooperate. Instead, his fingers twitch slightly, counting. He’s not subtle. Trevor pulls skin off the inside of his lip with his teeth, but lets Ian count. 

It doesn’t matter how many, Ian knows that. He knows more about this than he’s been ready to admit. Between the psych ward and the kids at the center and that one year when Carl was fifteen and was burning himself with lighters. Ian knows, but just like when he caught Carl one night on the back porch, he doesn’t know what to do.

He stops looking at his hand, though. Lets his eyes wander up Trevor’s torso, almost scanning it, in case he missed something else, and rests his gaze on Trevor’s fluttering eyelids. 

“Hey,” Ian whispers. 

Trevor flinches slightly, but otherwise does not react. Ian moves his hand up to touch Trevor’s face, thumb sliding against his cheek, expecting tears, but coming back dry.

“Hey,” he says, just as soft and undemanding as the first.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Trevor says back, finally opening his eyes and turning to look at Ian. He searches Ian’s face, looking nervous himself, but Ian has no idea what to offer. 

“That’s okay,” he ventures.

Trevor laughs sardonically. “It’s really not.”

Ian nods, shifting his thumb to catch a finally fallen tear, shaken loose from Trevor’s eyelashes by the vibration of his laugh. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I should go,” Trevor says, looking away from Ian’s face and sitting up. He finds his boxers on the floor and pulls them on, determinedly facing away from Ian as he does so.

Ian kisses Trevor’s shoulder but gets shrugged off. “You don’t have to,” he says weakly.

“No, I’ve gotta be at work early tomorrow, I’ve gotta go.” He steels himself and climbs out of the bed, Ian not far behind him.

“Trev, stay. Please.”

A kick of something flares up inside of Trevor. He throws Ian a cold look, inhales deep like trying to puff himself up. “I'm not looking for pity.” He pulls his jeans on in a huff.

Ian raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not offerin’ it. Please, it’s late and you’re tired-“

“Don’t tell me what I am,” Trevor snaps.

“Okay, I’m sorry." Ian slows his words down, careful. "I’m tired. And I just got some kinda fucked up news,” Ian reaches out and hooks his fingers in the belt loops of Trevor’s jeans, “About someone I really care about.” He smiles, somehow both shit-eating and encouraging, and so goddamned sickeningly charming. “And I want to go to sleep with my boyfriend, huh? Can we do that? For me?”

Trevor swats, reluctantly playful, at Ian’s arm with the crumpled shirt he’d just retrieved from the ground, smiling despite himself. He makes a show of rolling his eyes and thinking about it, looking down, almost shy, while Ian just smiles softly up at him.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, but you owe me one.”

A triumphant grin bursts out on Ian’s face. He pulls Trevor back into bed, saying, “Thank you, thank you,” while tugging Trevor’s jeans back off. 

They situate themselves back in bed, this time with Trevor still in his boxers, and lay quietly for a while.

The silence is loud, though. Every click and shift of the house sounds enormous, the soft rumble of Debbie talking to Franny from down the hall. It’s uncomfortable, almost itchy, to lie there pretending to be asleep.

Ian cracks open his eyes every few minutes, but Trevor is resolutely keeping his own eyes closed. 

“Hang on a second,” Ian says, reaching over Trevor to the bedside table. He grabs his phone and earbuds, offering the left one to Trevor, and puts on some music. It’s club music, meant for dancing, but Ian’s never been particular about genres. 

“Is this one of the songs I gave you from that yard party?”

“Shh,” Ian stage whispers. “‘m sleeping.”

Trevor leans over and kisses Ian’s forehead. Ian hates himself because, for a minute, it makes him think of Mickey. But this isn’t like that.

He’s better now. And he really, really likes Trevor. 

By the third song, they’ve both fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, a rant about something that's weighing on you right now, and concerns all welcome


	2. i play them for you

The next morning is rushed. Ian’s alarm wakes them up half an hour after Trevor had wanted to be up for work because he wasn’t lying, he did have to be in early to open the center. They maneuver around one another getting dressed, Trevor borrowing some deodorant that Ian grabs from the bathroom because there’s just no such thing as showering alone at the Gallagher house and, though it’s better, he’s still not really comfortable here.

“You can use my toothbrush, if you need. It’s the orange one.”

“That’s okay, I’ve got one at the office. Can I bug you for some coffee?”

“One black coffee to go, coming up.” Ian steals a kiss before heading downstairs.

Trevor takes a minute to think of what he wants to say. He knows he has to say something about last night. He sits on the edge of the bed and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until brilliant white stars bust across his vision. He sighs, gathers himself and his things, and heads down to the kitchen.

“Hey, I left some room in it so you can jazz it up when you get to work,” Ian says, indicating the to-go mug on the counter.

“Thanks.” Trevor hands Ian his bag mindlessly as he pulls on his coat and shoes. He’s looking to rush out, pretend nothing’s amiss. 

That is, until Ian says, “Can I walk you to the L?”

His, “Sure,” comes out a little strangled.

* * *

Ian insists on both carrying the bag that’s been handed to him and walking out in just a hoodie. They walk a few blocks in silence, both of them with their eyes on their shoes.

Then, Ian sighs, and Trevor tries to head him off. “Listen, I’m sorry about last-“

“It’s okay,” Ian is quick to interrupt. “I was just about to say, you don’t owe me an explanation. We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“No?” He says, hearing how pathetically hopeful his voice sounds.

“Nope. I’ll follow your lead, with this. But, no rush, no requirement. You’re allowed to have things that are just yours, even if you have a boyfriend.”

Trevor makes the conscious choice not to bristle. He knows that, of course.

Factually, anyway.

“Right.” They make it another block before he has to break the silence again. “Do you?”

Ian looks genuinely puzzled. It’s delightful. Head cocked just like a puppy.

“Have things that are 'just yours'?”

“‘Course.” He lets it hang there for a moment before adding, “Like, and listen, don’t tell anyone, but… I’m gay.”

Trevor shoves him, allows himself a laugh. It’s easy, being with Ian. He makes it so, so easy. And it’s nice, not to have to fight so hard, not having to prove anything. They talk about nothing in particular all the way to the bottom of the L platform, where Ian kisses him quick and tells him to have a good day.

“You too,” Trevor says. And, in spite of himself, he’s still smiling when he boards the train.

* * *

He doesn’t avoid Ian, exactly, but it’s been a few days since they’ve seen one another, and Trevor’s a little nervous Ian might just show up at work, and really, he’s not supposed to be nervous about his boyfriend swinging by on a lunch break with coffee. So he texts him.

_Busy tonight?_

_(; my boyfriend’s coming over. but i can tell him to get lost_

_So, your place, then?_

_i get off at 8_

_Dude, gross, I don’t need to hear about you jerking off._

_punk_

* * *

The night begins in the living room. They watch a horror movie that Carl put on. The gore is unrealistically over-the-top and therefore manageable, but the sharp, suspenseful music sets Ian’s teeth on edge. He’s trying to look comfortable, one arm along the back of the couch, fingers toying in the short hair at the base of Trevor’s skull. He doesn’t flinch, like the other two do, at the jumpscares, but only because he’s holding himself so rigid in anticipation of them that he’s not sure he could move. His muscles scream their protest at how tense he holds them, but he can’t relax.

And, it’s more than the movie. He hasn’t talked to Trevor much the last few days, his mind spinning itself uselessly around the newly acquired information. He keeps his distance, to try to keep himself pushing and asking about things that are not his business. He believes what he said, that Trevor is allowed to have things for himself. He’d be a hypocrite not to, having never outright mentioned his bipolar.

Trevor is only given information when it becomes glaringly obvious that there’s something to tell. He’s fed small details about his home life when they run into Frank. Gets a tidbit when Fiona fusses too much about Ian holding to a schedule. Ian hints at his childhood when Monica texts him out-of-the-blue asking if they can go for drinks tomorrow night.

It’s just tricky, so early on in a relationship, to find the ways to balance these things.

And anyway, Trevor doesn’t get it as innately as Mickey did. None of Ian's recent exes have, because Mickey grew up South Side, knew all about poverty and addiction and untreated mental illness, even if it hadn't been something that had directly affected him growing up. And Mickey knew things Ian didn’t often experience personally, abuse and jail and homophobia, but Ian could understand it enough because he’d also always been around it. They _got_ one another by nature of their upbringings, even if they never said so in so many words.

Trevor’s on the outside of all that. And he’s secretive in his own right, usually only disclosing information when they’re fighting, when his emotions are running higher and his filter isn’t quite as strong.

The other night, in bed, had been a rare exception.

But even so, was it really all that different? It was intimacy unwillingly given, because he’d been caught.

And Ian has no idea where to go from here. He’s willing to let Trevor hide, if that’s what he wants. Will let Trevor set the pace for this, for everything, entirely, if it means keeping him in his life. He’s liked some of the other guys he’s been with since Mickey went to prison, but this is the same rattle in his chest, same obsessive desire, that he wasn’t sure he could still feel, now that he wasn’t a teenager.

He understands how awkward it is, to have to tell people. Use his words. There had almost been something easy about the fact that Mickey knew from learning alongside him. That he so rarely had to speak about the way his bipolar affected him, because Mickey had been there at the onset. The stories of Monica that he’d shared, drunk, clicked into place. It meant something different.

Just speaking about it all, Yevgeny and Disney World and the suitcases and the sex and the bed and the hospital, it all becomes abstract, if not witnessed. He’s worried he’ll play it off too casual, like it was a weird blip, nothing to worry about, which, at present, it isn’t anything to worry about, but he knows how he gets with his meds sometimes and how his mother had always insisted that she was fine, that she liked it, that she could handle it, until she couldn’t. 

Ian doesn’t want to be like Monica.

The trouble being, Monica is his only point of reference. His only example of how to be. He can choose to forge his own path, but does he know the outcome will be any different? Any better? Isn't it best to not mention any of it until there’s no choice but to confess?

He doesn’t know how he feels about any of this. What to do with Trevor’s secrets. With his own. It all feels like he can’t win for losing.

This relationship would be going so perfectly, if it stopped being so fucked up and complicated for five goddamn seconds.

“I’m gonna grab a beer, you want anything?” He asks.

Trevor smiles easily. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

As he hauls himself up off the couch, feeling old in a way he never had before the breakdowns and the medication (and he’s not sure if that’s the cause or if he really is just feeling the effects of age) Carl says, “I’ll take a beer, if you’re up already.”

And Ian’s known that Carl is old enough to drink now. Not legally, or anything, but for the most part he’d been held back from booze until at least after the age Lip and Ian had gotten started at. The kid's plenty involved with complicated shit on his own. Can be handed a beer over a B-list horror movie. But still, it feels weird.

Sometimes, in his head, Carl and Debbie are still little. Little kids with little problems like getting expelled from elementary school and kidnapping toddlers.

He twists the top off both beers and tosses the caps into the garbage. He takes a long drink, leans back against the kitchen counter, and stares at the fridge. The information he has about Trevor runs through his head again. He tries to tally it all up, force it to make sense without having to ask any questions.

He remembers when Carl was doing this shit. Remembers some of the things he'd said about distractions and control. Remembers the hospital with its sterile smell and crisp, white bandaged patients.

He tries to make sense of it all, tries to figure out how worried he should be. If that worry should escalate to outright fear. And how much of all of this is actually his problem, his responsibility. Trevor’s a grown man.

But, still, if no one had looked out for Ian when he was going through it, things would have turned out much worse.

Ian holds the cool beer to his temple, letting the feeling chase away his thoughts and just hurt. The cold seeps into his brain like it’s frozen, like a headache, but there’s something pleasant about the way his skin numbs.

“Hey,” Carl calls out. “What happened with the beer? Movie’s almost over.”

Ian returns, passes the drink, and waits out the last fifteen minutes of the movie.

As the credits roll, Carl seems to deliberate about whether to try to claim the living room (he was there first) or retreat upstairs. In the end, Carl takes his beer, snags the laptop from where it sits, shut, on the coffee table, and wanders up the stairs.

At the click of their bedroom door shutting, Ian finally dares to look at Trevor.

“Oh no,” Trevor says, but he’s smiling, with only a hint of a wince. “You have questions.”

“No!” Ian says, too loud to be true. “No, I’m just thinking... about...” but no lie comes to him and he returns Trevor’s smile, feeling sheepish.

“Yeah, you do. You have questions.”

“I mean, yeah. I might. Have a question. Or two.”

“Or an entire conversation’s worth.”

“Maybe that. Maybe.”

Trevor sighs, but says, “It’s okay. I’d have questions too, if I were you.”

“You’re under no obligation to answer any of them,” Ian insists.

Trevor shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s true, Red. I think, I mean. If we want to keep doing... this,” he gestures between himself and Ian. “Then I gotta give you something, you know?”

“Kinda.”

“Yeah.”

“But honestly. You really, really don’t. I meant what I said, you don’t have to tell me anything. Or, at least, not anything that doesn’t directly affect me. Like, if I’m involved, there are a few things I kinda need to know, but you don’t have to get me involved.”

“You’re already involved.”

And the sentiment speaks so much more to the status of their relationship than it does to the conversation they’re having. Ian is involved. They’re together. No one has said anything distinctly one way or another. No middle-school-talks of “I like you-like you” or grandpa talks of “going steady.” The validation warms him for a moment, before something cold, something like dread, settles in the pit of Ian’s stomach.

He wants to know. He wouldn’t be asking, if he didn’t want to know. But also, he wants, a little, to cover his ears and run away humming loudly.

It’s wildly uncomfortable, and even though he’d resigned himself to letting Trevor set the pace, he feels like he’s been forced to take the lead in a conversation he’d really rather not be having. 

So, letting either himself or Trevor off the hook, he decides on a path that's not exactly Talking About The Thing, but not entirely avoiding it either.

But just as the question works its way down from his brain to his mouth, Trevor yawns.

"Sorry," Trevor says, embarrassed at his own tiredness.

“No, it's okay. It- It can wait."

“Just until morning,” Trevor says like both a question and a promise.

Ian claps his hand down on Trevor’s shoulder and promises back that he’ll ask in the morning. He ushers them both to bed, (his and Carl’s and Liam’s room, since Lip is with Sierra in his own) but he lays awake for hours, fingertips tracing swirled patterns against any inch of Trevor’s skin that he can reach, mind racing with similar acrobatics, about what it is that he actually _needs_ to know.

* * *

The sun rises directly onto Ian’s bed all year long.

Ian swears he likes it, getting woken up by the sun, getting stolen moments of peace and quiet as he watches the daylight crest the horizon before the early stirrings of his siblings erupt into usual Gallagher chaos. 

Trevor is very much less a fan.

It’s just past seven thirty, and Trevor is grateful that it is winter. If the sun had risen any earlier, he would have woken up feeling hungover despite not having been drinking. As it is, he’s a little disoriented when he opens his eyes. Ian’s room is relatively unfamiliar. With all the brothers, they don’t often spend time here. It’s more a place just to sleep. 

He glances around for a second, regretting not having taken out his contacts the night before, eyes a little blurry and quite dry. He glares at the alarm clock, then takes in the clothes on the floor, the stop sign on the back of the door, the pile of weapons stacked psychopathically neatly beneath Carl’s lofted bed. He sighs and rolls over onto his back, startled to find Ian watching him.

“Jesus, you scared me,” Trevor says a little breathlessly.

Ian smiles like he doesn’t mind at all. “Good morning.” His eyes are very bright.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some, yeah.” But his tone implies it wasn’t much sleep, or maybe wasn’t good sleep. 

He frowns a little at Ian, but Ian seems awake. Wide awake, even.

“Quit staring at me, you weirdo.”

“Like lookin’ at you.”

Trevor sits up. Stretches. The other two boys are still sleeping soundly. It’s a Saturday, and Vanessa is opening up the center today. He’s free to roll back over and go to sleep, if he wants. Has until the early evening before Ian’s due at work.

But there’s tension in the way Ian's face is set. Like he’s barely holding something back.

And then Trevor remembers how the night before ended and now he definitely wants to go back to sleep.

“You still have questions?” He yawns despite himself.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay, then you owe me coffee.”

“One coffee,” Ian says, sitting up, sheets pooling in his lap as he leans over to kiss Trevor on the nose. “Coming up.”

Ian leaps over Trevor to get out of bed. Trevor used to suspect Ian was always showing off for his benefit, but he’s starting to think Ian’s just one of those people who has a natural spring in his step. Too much energy crowded into a single body. Can’t help but always be in motion. 

Trevor flops back onto the pillows for a minute to steel himself, both for the conversation he’s about to face, and for the morning at large.

He’s not ready to be awake, though he fell asleep kinda pathetically early the night before, only just making it past ten pm before having to be practically dragged to bed by Ian. It’s more sleep than he’s gotten in the last few weeks, the cause of his sleeplessness still eluding him, but he’s greedy. And still tired. And just wants to rest his eyes a moment longer.

* * *

He wakes up again to the thick smell of cheap coffee and Ian murmuring his name. He cracks one eye open and Ian is standing over him, clutching two mugs, smiling.

“Trevor,” he whispers in a sing-song.

There’s a sound of at least one of the mugs being set down on the bedside table.

“Wakey, wakey.”

Keeping his eyes firmly closed, Trevor scrunches up his face to show his displeasure. "No."

“Uh-huh. Good morning. Rise and shine,” Ian still kinda sings.

Trevor shakes his head.

“Well,” there's the sound of a mug being lifted off the nightstand this time. “The coffee is going to go live down in the kitchen, with or without you.”

“No,” Trevor pouts, dragging out the vowel.

“Yep. Kitchen.”

Then there’s footfalls on the stairs, lithe and quiet steps, and a hint of retreating laughter.

Trevor groans slightly before remembering the other sleeping roommates. He clambers out of bed, goes into the bathroom to wipe his face with some cool water, change his contacts out. He doesn’t bother with brushing his teeth. It’s his day off and he’s about to drink coffee and if Ian stops liking him because of his morning breath that’s his loss. Trevor is determined to not start his day for as long as he can manage to push it off.

Ian’s sitting at the kitchen counter. He almost never sits at the table, not unless everyone is. Trevor finds it endearing. It’s something that happens in a childhood home. Claiming a seat and automatically gravitating back to it again and again. Having a place where you know you belong.

Trevor doesn’t even have a side of the bed at his place. He usually starfishes in the middle when he’s sleeping alone. There hasn’t been anyone to have to share his space with since he left his parents’ house at eighteen. For a second, he lets himself picture Ian living with him. Not the moving in, exactly, but being around enough to claim a spot on the couch, establish a routine to going to bed. It’s a very domestic fantasy. Overwhelmingly so. And it’s as frightening as it is comforting, how easily his mind conjures images of a life with Ian.

“Coffee?” He asks, settling into the spot next to Ian. 

Without looking up from the newspaper that Trevor knows he isn’t reading so much as staring blankly at, Ian hands him the yellow mug. It has a splash of milk in it, probably more sugar than is reasonable because Ian drinks his black and has no idea how much sugar a normal person takes and must dump in half a bag with every cup. The gesture is kinda gross and kinda sweet. Just like the coffee. 

They caffeinate in silence for however long it takes Ian to finish his coffee. At that point, he feels he cannot push off the conversation any longer.

“Questions?” The sentence he keeps asking loses syllables every time he has to bring it back up. Any more and he’ll have to just say “question mark” aloud. 

“Questions,” Ian agrees. He folds the paper back in quarters, still trying to keep up the illusion that he’d been reading it.

Then he looks at Trevor, meets his eye for a long moment, then looks down. His mouth opens and shuts like a fish, forming the beginnings of words a few times before losing steam.

Then, of course, ever impulsive, the first of the interrogation spills out in a complete sentence. “Is there a reason you didn’t want to tell me?”

Trevor makes a noise between a sigh and a laugh. A tiny sound that sounds sarcastic even to his own ears. “I, uh. I thought you knew? I get if that sounds like a lame excuse, but I was nearly sure you’d seen or felt them already and decided on your own that it didn’t need addressing.”

Trevor can almost watch the blush light up behind Ian’s freckles. They’re both talking more to their own hands than one another. It’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable, and maybe that’s what’s keeping them speaking. 

“Yeah, I dunno.” Ian says. "I guess I just… missed it. Does that make me a shitty boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend, huh?”

Ian gives a breathy, reluctant laugh. “Shut up.”

“No, it doesn’t make you shitty.” Trevor toys with one of his bracelets, a woven friendship bracelet cross hatched pink and white and blue, but then the action feels a little too on the nose. 

The bracelet had been a gift from his childhood best friend, Madison. The girl he’d grown up alongside. The first person he came out to. And, in the process of coming out, in the spirit of revealing things about himself to another human being after months of keeping it locked up inside his own head, he’d given too much. Over-shared. He’d mentioned the cutting to her that same night, as if the two were related, but really, they weren’t. 

Trevor suspects it would have happened to him, or rather, it’s something he would have done regardless. Like it was written into his life at birth. Not being able to handle all the suffering. His own, his friends’, total strangers'. He’s felt so deeply, so widely, since as far back as he can remember and it has brought him amazing people, his line of work, his insistence towards activism and advocacy and standing up for people who couldn’t do it for themselves. It’s made him a good person, but is sometimes a curse as much as a blessing. 

She’d given him the bracelet a few weeks later. It didn’t lay entirely flat, had a few bumps on one side in particular, as she was getting the hang of tying the knots, but it was the best gift anyone had ever given him. He’d cried. And then he’d felt bad for crying. And she’d seemed unsure if she should hug him; something she would have done thoughtlessly, easily, before he came out, and it was the most beautiful moment of their entire friendship, but it also proved how much would change. How, either because of his queerness or because of his maleness, people were going to treat him differently. Even wonderful people who wanted so badly to support him.

Ultimately, the bracelet had been one of the reasons he couldn’t stay in Jersey. He loved her, he did. But he needed to go somewhere. Start fresh. Not pretend not to be trans, he’d never hide it, but begin again in a place where he looked the way he looked, was the way he was. Somewhere where no one had seen the ugly duckling days of his transition. 

(If asked, he’d not suggest the same path to anyone else. He’d emphasize the importance of keeping a support network, worry about how much more susceptible to abuse a person is when they don’t know anyone, encourage people who had the chance to try to mend things with their families. He wouldn’t suggest to anyone that they do as he’d done, but also, he’s not sure he could have done anything different.)

“I was trying to guarantee you’d never see," he confesses.

Ian nods, bites his lip and thinks before speaking. “I definitely thought you just didn’t want me to see you wholly naked because of the… erm, non-factor,” the sentence trails off like a question.

“I, yeah. I mean, I knew you’d think that. I kinda... It helps, to have those excuses like built in to my existence.”

“Helps?”

Trevor scowls at the almost-reprimand. “You know what I mean.”

Like a dark cloud passing over, Ian’s face sobers. “Yeah,” he agrees, right hand picking at the cuticles on his left fingers.

He nods, still serious, to himself. Pulls a little harder and the skin rips off. Trevor glances around for a second, not wanting to watch. When he looks back, Ian is sucking on his finger. He smiles around it, nods to the fridge, says, “Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

It’s whiplash-y, how quickly Ian can force a shift in his mood for the sake of politeness. He has a soothing, professional bedside manner when he needs it, can force down anger and frustration with the horror stories of the kids at the center. He can rage at his father and in the next second fall right back into the conversation Frank interrupted. On the verge of tears, he could probably pivot and already have a smile on his face by the time he’s full turned. 

It’s not a detachment, and it’s not scary, like some of the eerie ways some of his kids compartmentalize trauma, plastering on a twitchy-fake smile in uncomfortable conversations to push Trevor away. It’s not that. Ian is highly in tune with his emotions, is the first to confess himself something of a crybaby. 

It’s more like how Trevor cannot understand how this soft, sweet man wanted to be a marine. There are so many facets to Ian, and sometimes, even though he knows it stupid and selfish and more than a little ironic, Trevor worries that he’s only ever staring at a reflection of Ian. Like there’s always so much more going on than what’s at the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, song lyrics that are stuck in your head, and concerns all welcome


	3. won't stop 'til it's over

It lasts a few weeks. Not talking about it. Ian and Trevor coordinate their work schedules as best they can. They drink beer and talk about siblings (of which, Trevor has none, and Ian can’t even really wrap his head around what such an existence would be like. Would he have liked it? Or would it have been lonely?) and Trevor gives Ian a rundown of what a twelve-step program looks like (Ian’s been next door to meetings, in the psych ward, but never attended. And he’s curious, in a vacant, distant way, because Lip’s drinking has worsened again and Ian wants to do something about it, but isn’t sure what) and Ian asks about Trev’s kids and realizes that he never really understood that Trevor is _trained_ for what he does. Trevor went to college, has a degree in social work. It feels so official and professional in a way that Trevor just doesn’t come across. 

They talk about college, and for a minute, Trevor pushes Ian in the direction of the idea of attendance.

Ian smiles, seeming amused at Trevor’s naivety. He says college isn’t an option for him, was never going to be. He’d known that since middle school. It’s why he’d had his sights set on joining the military. It was the only way Ian was going to make something of himself. 

(Now, he’s relatively resigned to his new life. EMT wasn’t a career choice he’d ever really considered, and now he has it, and he loves it, and it’s not what he wanted, but it’s good. It’ll be okay. His sounds optimistic, happy, even, when he says all this, but Trevor notices the faint edge of disappointment in his voice.)

But talk of college has Trevor reminiscing his own university days. He mentions some old friends, including Hannah, who he went into work with, who helped him get the center off the ground, before moving on to other projects.

And talking about Hannah leads to talking about the queer club they’d worked to diversify together, making the focus less on just cis, white, gay men.

And talking about queer club launches him into a bit of a rant, which Ian watches good-naturedly, nodding at the appropriate times, smiling like an idiot about the way Trevor never seems to run out of things to say.

He does pause, for a minute, to catch his breath in the middle of a tirade against the phrasing of “ _preferred_ pronouns” when Ian interrupts his train of thought.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

Trevor jumps, almost like a flinch. His eyes unfocus, shift quickly back and forth, nearly scared, for a moment. “Don’t call me that.”

And Ian, stubborn fucker that he is sometimes, blessedly, doesn’t fight him. He clicks his tongue, thinks for a moment, then says, “Stunning, then. Consider me stunned.”

Ian is always picking at scabs. “Beautiful,” was a word Trevor heard more as he came out than he ever did growing up. “Why would you want to change your beautiful body?” “But, you’re so beautiful.” “You’re trying to get rid of my beautiful daughter.” 

It’s a manipulative, terrible word. It reduced him, over and over until he got the fuck out of dodge (or well, Jersey) to only his physical self. He stopped being a whole person, everyone’s whole entire child or grandkid or cousin; made him into just a beautiful body he was “intent on destroying.” The word still causes a visceral reaction, can feel himself pull away from it, tries his best never to use it himself. 

But Ian isn’t picking at this scab. He isn’t throwing a tantrum to know what’s going on in Trevor’s head. He took it in stride, changed tactics. He’s… stunned.

Trevor knows the silence has gone on for a few beats too long. He’d gotten distracted, remembering. But, still, any chance to tease Ian, so he says, “You’re not too bad yourself.”

* * *

Of course, nothing good lasts forever. Lip’s recent break up with Sierra has left Ian and Trevor designated to the living room for most of their stays at the Gallagher house. And Monica’s reappearance seems to have everyone except Fiona very on edge. (And Fiona’s determined insistence that she’s not on edge has really the same effect as being on edge, so she cannot be wholly discounted from the tension.) And Trevor and Ian got in a fight the night Monica tried to go drinking with them. It’s mostly resolved, now. Let go, at least, on Trevor’s part.

(He admitted to being something of a hot-head, shrugging and citing Jersey as the true villain in this slightly awkward situation.)

So everything is turned a little on its head, and really, that alone should have prepared Ian a bit more for the conversation that was to come (with the exception of one sort of throw-away line in their fight the other night, Trevor has been resolutely _not talking about The Thing._ Now that it’s fucking opposite day or something, he should have been expecting it.)

He hands Trevor a beer that’s too cold because someone left it wedged up in the door beside the ice maker. It’s already slippery-wet and stinging Ian’s own hand, but Trevor takes a long swig anyway, nods like he’s trying to talk himself into something, and then looks over at Ian.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he bargains.

Ian kicks his heels up onto the coffee table in a show of casualty, hands turned up as if to say _go ahead_. “What do you want to know?”

“The other night when I was with your mom,” he starts slowly. “We really didn’t know one another or anything, but she wanted to go get drinks still and she doesn’t really take no for an answer, does she?”

“That’s Monica,” Ian says, though with a hint of nerves straining his voice.

“Yeah, well, she talked around in circles for a bit. Mostly about the neighborhood. Memories that different landmarks evoked. I know you said she was a drug addict, but man, it was a lot just trying to keep up with the speed at which she was telling me about everything.” Trevor kinda chuckles, like he’s letting himself laugh, or making himself. 

Ian takes his feet off the table and sits forward on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, leg bouncing.

“Anyway, she starts talking about you, at some point. Little stories about when you were a kid, the time she stole a skateboard for you when you were a little, how you came and lived with her and her boyfriend in Iowa for a while, how alike you two are…” 

Trevor sorta fades out, but Ian knows what’s coming, and as if to prove a point to himself, he takes a reckless leap forward in the conversation.

“She tell you I’m bipolar?”

Ian’s voice is tight. Soft. Whenever he gets very serious, his voice sorta… melts. Even he can hear it. Everything about him becomes more docile: demeanor shifting, words clearer, pitch higher. When he’s happy, everything is a rush. Loud and gruff and South-Side. This is gentler. Submissive. Frightened.

Trevor nods, looking down at his hands. “Yeah.”

Ian grinds his teeth together for a moment, rubs his palms together to work out some anxious energy. “That it, then?” His jaw is set when he looks up at Trevor, hard, like he’s challenging him. 

“Is what it?”

“You breaking up with me?”

Trevor laughs. 

He honest to god laughs, and Ian’s on his feet in a heartbeat, pacing. 

“No, shit. I’m sorry,” Trevor says, jumping forward slightly on the couch to reach for Ian. He schools his face. “I didn’t mean to laugh, I just- it was kinda funny to me, the irony of it all.”

“Wanna enlighten me as to what’s so goddamn ironic?”

“Hey,” Trevor says, arm outstretched again. 

Ian doesn’t take his hand, but he does stop pacing, leans with his hands against the arm of the couch and throws his eyebrows up like, _well?_

“Sorry, it’s just, we’re literally having this conversation because I wanted to tell you about the cuts you felt that other night, and I’ve known for weeks that you’re bipolar, and I dunno. I just thought it was funny, I guess, that you thought I’d expect you not to have a problem with me and my shit, but I was gonna have a problem with yours.” He lets that thought stand for a minute, before adding, “I’m trying to talk to you, that’s all. It seems under control, your condition. Not at all like Monica and hers. I just wanna know about it, is all. No one’s going anywhere.”

“Okay,” Ian says, nodding and looking at his hands, face a little flushed with either residual anger, or embarrassment at the anger. “Okay, sorry. I’ll just-“ He points at the couch and then comes back to sit down. He lets out a long breath, then lifts his head to look at Trevor again. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I kinda went about it bad. I’m sorry. This is all just… outside of my comfort zone, a little.”

“Don’t you get a lot of this shit at work?”

“It’s different, there. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t care, but there’s a professional amount of distance between me and the kids. And there’s a counselor, so when I get out of my depth, I tend to just refer them back to her for help.” Trevor's work is all to do with securing housing for his kids. Advocating for them. Identifying their needs and directing them to someone who can help. The psych stuff, though he's trained in it, always makes his stomach turn. Though he fields a lot of it, it's not his area. He's not a therapist, he does paperwork.

“Oh.”

Trevor reaches out and takes Ian’s hand, their fingers interlaced. “When you said that Monica’s ‘brand’ of crazy could be kinda terrifying, did you mean...?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it like?”

“Crazy?”

“Is that your answer?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s, I mean, you gotta know all about depression, with the kids and all. It’s scary in its own way. I’m only like half of a functioning person. It, uh, gets bad. Out of hand. I can’t think of a reason to do anything other than lie in bed and wait until either it ends or like, living does. It’s like absolutely fuck-all matters.”

Ian glances up to see Trevor nodding a little. He quirks an encouraging smile.

“The mania’s kinda the same thought, as when I’m depressed. Like, nothing matters. Except, it feels amazing. That thought alone is so freeing. Nothing I worried about before matters. It’s all going to work out great, no matter how carelessly I’ve thrown it together. I almost can’t breathe for how excited I am, to be alive and....”

“Yeah?”

“Only, even with how good it feels, that’s sometimes the scarier part. I get, confused. And reckless. I steal shit and have psychotic thoughts about like angels and soldiers and shit.”

“What did you steal?” Trevor is smiling, and Ian worries he’s somehow misconstrued the whole thing, because he knows the answer isn’t very funny.

“Um, well a helicopter, once. From the US military. Some suitcases from the airport. And then my, um. I might have kidnapped Mickey’s baby?” He winces, then quickly adds, “Only for a few days! The cops picked us up after I left Yev, the baby, in the car alone. I was screaming about the devil in a supermarket by the end of it.”

“Wow.”

“Honestly, I’ve been very lucky that it’s never been worse. I’ve seen it worse, with Monica. Because when it starts, it feels so, so _good_. I’m wide awake and everything is so bright and possible and I have absolutely no impulse control, so if a road trip with my boyfriend’s kid to Disney World is the thought that pops into my head, I start doing it. Even though I didn’t bring a diaper bag or food or tell his fucking parents, it was. Not my finest moment.”

“Jesus,” Trevor breathes.

“Nah, you know, looking back, I don’t think Jesus had very much to do with it at all. I just...” Ian’s can feel the shit-eating grin split open on his face, “really, really thought he did.”

“You’re an idiot,” Trevor says, giving him an affectionate shove.

“It’s been said.”

Ian leans forward to pick up his drink. He both does and does not want the conversation to shift back onto Trevor. He feels a little restless, not necessarily in the practice of talking about his diagnosis, but also sick to death of having to explain it to people.

It seems, every time, even though he hits on all the major points of how his condition presents itself in his life, he highlights different aspects. The doctors get a lot more of the internal monologue he feels while _episodes_ (he hates that word) are going on. Boyfriends get a highlight reel of chaos because, to him, the mania, because it feels so good and comes on kinda slowly, is the more important one they look out for. 

Of course, giving boyfriends too many red-flag check-boxes to look for makes them hyper-vigilant and trigger happy to call Ian out on his behavior. He is impulsive enough by his own nature, he’s stolen plenty of things without actually being manic. It’s important to him that they understand the difference, that there’s an energy thrumming behind the mania that they need to be in tune with, and everything else is just normal Gallagher shenanigans. 

He’s not sure how well he’s expressed himself with all of this, but talking about bipolar leads him to thoughts of Monica. Which leads him to thoughts of the night Trevor met Monica. And follow it all the way back to the really scary thing Trevor said about, _You wanna see prom pictures, too? That’s too bad. I was in the hospital with my wrists bandaged that night. I forgot to bring my camera._

Which brings them to the “I’ll show you mine” part of the evening.

Sure, Ian’s trying to be cool about all this, trying to not poke and prod into his boyfriend’s life, trying to trust him, when he says he can handle it, says he has it under control, that he means it.

Ian’s just... not quite there yet.

“What are you thinking about,” Trevor asks. He sounds serious. The lightening effects of the earlier joke long disappated.

“Just, uh. You plannin’ on keeping up your end of the deal here?”

Trevor’s gaze goes back down to his hands. He steeples his fingers together. “What do you want to know?”

“When did it start?”

Ian’s question surprises even himself. It came out rushed, like it had been waiting, dormant but not inactive, at the very front of his mind.

Either the pacing or the question itself makes Trevor give a laugh that is tinged with regret, or maybe self-loathing. It's sharp. Cold, but not towards Ian.

He wrings his wrists a few times before answering. “I was thirteen.”

“Why do you still do it?”

“Never found anything better?”

Ian doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway. “Do you want to stop?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t want to be doing this forever, but no, I’m not ready to stop yet. I will," Trevor's eyes find an interesting spot on the floor to watch. "Someday.”

“You sound like an addict,” Ian observes neutrally. Saying “addict” and holding a drink puts him off, though. He sets it back on the table. 

Trevor opens his mouth on instinct, but seems to think better of what he’s about to say. He sighs and swallows his protest at the accusation. He seems to decide to defer to Ian’s expertise on who may or may not be an addict. “Yeah, I might be. In a way. Or, at least, I’d say so... if I saw this behavior in anyone but myself.”

“What, it’s okay when you do it?”

“Sort of,” he says, delicately. “Like, say a kid at the center comes to me with the same problem, right? I’ve got protocol to follow. I hand over the flyer filled with alternatives to self-harm, I become their personal cheerleader, offer resources, check-ins, time with the counselor. Because I can see that they’re just a kid who’s hurting and it’s, like.” 

Trevor takes a long, careful breath. There’s an edge of panic in his voice as the words tumble out of his mouth. It’s very pressured, too quick. Like his mouth is moving without thinking, without processing a single word he’s saying. Watching him, for a moment, Ian gets a better idea of what Fiona had meant when she said he talks differently when he’s manic. He can kinda get that it’s scary for her, this thoughtless spill of feelings. 

It might not be exactly the same, but he sees it now. A little.

Trevor continues, “When it’s me and my life, I can think it’s a good idea, or that I deserve it, and I’ll provide all the evidence necessary to prove that I need to do it. But when it’s one of my kids, I can’t understand how they could feel that way. I see them, all of them, and I know they’re just scared and I want to protect them.”

Ian can’t let it go. He keeps pushing the matter. “Don’t you think you deserve to have someone to do that for you, too?”

“No,” Trevor laughs, like the idea is absurd to him. “I’m just an idiot making the same mistakes again and again even though I know better.”

“But, at some point, you were a kid who needed help and no one helped you.”

Trevor’s barely keeping the anger out of his voice when he says, “I know! That’s why I want to do this work.”

“You’re missing my point,” he snaps back. 

Trevor just sort of glares at him, placing his empty bottle a little too roughly on the table beside Ian’s half-drunk one, but lets him speak.

Ian takes a beat. He sits forward on the couch so their knees are touching, takes Trevor’s hands in his, stoops his head to catch Trevor’s eye. “Trev, listen. You were just a kid, when this started. I mean, thirteen? You were a baby. You didn’t know any better. And you wanted to stop feeling so much.”

Trevor tries to squirm out of Ian’s grasp and he tightens it for only a second, just long enough to get out the next sentence. “You didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

Ian _needs_ him to hear that, if nothing else from this whole fight.

He repeats it, dropping their tangled hands, but still looking intently at Trevor’s face. “That little kid who thinks he needs to be punished just for existing is still a part of you. You’re still choosing to hurt him. Don’t you want to stop?”

“That’s- Shut up. One, that’s lame as hell. And two, I’m a grown man-”

Ian sits back and interrupts, “How are you any different from one of your kids with the same problem?”

“I’m supposed to be better,” Trevor half-shouts. 

Ian’s still hoping he’s not wrong about this. Hoping that if he just keeps rolling this conversation up the hill, at some point they’ll reach the top, the tipping point of all this hurt and anger than Trevor tries to pretend he doesn’t feel. Ian’s not certain this will fix anything, but he wants Trevor to admit he doesn’t deserve this. 

“Better than them?”

“Yes!” Then, as if he hears what he’s just said, all the fight goes out of him. “No. No, of course not. I’m just- I’m supposed to be grown, you know? Past all this shit. How’m I supposed to help them?”

“You _are_ helping them.”

Trevor shakes his head sadly. “I just, I feel like I’m not good enough for them.”

They’ve had iterations of this conversation before. Ian’s said things like _you cannot be expected to perfectly meet all of their needs_ and _as long as it was the best you could do at the time, it’s okay_ and _you give them so much._

But, tonight, with Trevor looking more defeated and small than Ian’s ever seen him, he says, “You’re doing good, Trev. You’re doing so good. It’s okay.”

Ian keeps up his soothing as he reaches forward, hands wrapping behind Trevor and sort of knocking him forward. And he goes, limply. Falls against Ian’s chest. His fingers wrap tightly in Ian’s t-shirt. He doesn’t cry, although Ian does, a little.

* * *

When they pull apart, Trevor looks exhausted. He sways in place, eyes bright and far-away. Ian decides they’re all done. It’s bedtime.

They’re in Fiona’s room tonight. Frank’s old bedroom. She’s out god-even-knows-where, and the general rule is, anyone not home by midnight can’t claim a whole room to themselves. Her room even has a door. A real door, unlike Lip’s which is a vinyl sheet that pretends its a door. Her room is cool and they climb into bed fully dressed.

Ian pulls the blankets up over their heads. Like Mandy used to. She'd lie beside him in bed and cover them entirely with the comforter and she’d make her confessions, about her father, about Lip, some insight about Mickey. And when she was done, she’d remind him, “These secrets don’t leave the tent,” before throwing the blankets back and going on like nothing had happened.

“You know,” he says, watching Trevor watch him back, “Any secrets you say inside the tent have to stay here forever.”

“Sorta like a Vegas situation?” Trevor’s voice is flat, but the words are a joke. It’s progress. Slight progress.

“Sorta,” he agrees. “I’ll tell you one, if you promise to use it for good and not evil.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, ‘cause, you see, it’s not my secret to tell, exactly. I mean, it is. And it isn’t.”

Trevor shifts forward on the bed, closer to Ian. His hands are curled up under his chin, squints a little in suspicion.

When Trevor doesn’t say anything, though, Ian goes on. “I have two things, actually, and I’ll try to keep it short so you can sleep, okay?”

Trevor gives a tiny nod.

“Okay, one: Carl used to do something like what you do,” he can’t help himself, his eyes dart down to Trevor’s clothed thigh for just a second before returning to his face, “and he stopped, and he might be able to help you stop, and I want to help you stop. If ever you decide you want that.”

Trevor bites his lip, but can only nod a little again in response. Ian’s quickly losing him to sleep. It’s precious. He’s gorgeous.

“And, two,” he says, leaving a hint of a drumroll in the air, watching as Trevor loses his fight against sleep, his mouth slipping open, eyes falling shut, breath coming heavier. There’s a rush of relief; Ian’s pretty sure Trevor won’t hear him say, “I think I could love you. And I think it could happen soon.”

Trevor doesn’t react at all, only continues on his steady breathing, lightly drooling onto Ian’s pillow. Ian brushes Trevor’s hair back from his forehead, over and over, until he too falls asleep, hand resting against Trevor’s cheek, both of them still completely covered in the blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, crochet tips, and concerns all welcome


	4. won't stop to surrender

**Sunday, March 15th, 1:07p**

_you should text carl_

_I heard you the first time_

_you know i'm right_

_text carl_

_And //you know I think it's weird to launch into a conversation with him about this_

_he's family_

_Yours! To me, he's basically a stranger_

_therapists are strangers_

_what's the difference?_

_Therapists have actual training???_

_carl has practical training_

_i already told him to expect to hear from you_

_Did you really?_

_yup, no going back now_

_Not for you, but I haven't said anything, he doesn't need to know_

_think about it, at least_

_Can we not talk about this anymore?_

_grumpy_

_Sleepy*_

_(Dopey, Doc, Sneezey)_

_Fuck off, Red, I've got work to do_

_*:_

* * *

**Tuesday, March 17th, 2:27p**

_Hey Carl, it’s Trevor, Ian’s boyfriend?_

_ian said to expect a text from you_

_this about_ _that serious talk y’all were having over breakfast_ _this morning_

_You heard?_

_thin walls dude. sorry_

_and sorry for what’s going on man. sucks_

_That it does._

_wanna meet me somewhere_

_i’m about to go out for a run_

_anywhere in a six mile radius is cool with me_

_Sorry, I'm at work_

_Um, today’s no good_

_just lmk_

_Will do_

**Thursday, March 26th, 3:42p**

_Hey Carl, it’s Trevor. I keep calling Ian_ _but not getting him, you know where he is?_

_i haven’t been home much_

_i can ask if anyone’s seen him_

_That’d be great, thanks_

* * *

**Thursday, March 26th, 4:05p**

_anyone have eyes on ian recently_

* * *

**Yesterday, 7:28a**

_no one’s seen him since monday_

**Yesterday, 9:22a**

_do you think he’s okay_

_I’m sure he’s fine_

_I mean, it's a little unlike him._

_But he seemed fine_

* * *

**Yesterday, 10:12a**

_fi, you still have the location on ian's phone turned on_

_Tap to download_

_IMG_392.JPG_

_what the fucks in texas?_

* * *

**Yesterday, 11:56p**

_Still no news?_

_Should I be worried?_

**Today, 12:52a**

_Carl?_

_I just want to know if he's safe_

**Today, 4:16a**

_I don't care if hes wiht Mickey_

_Just tell me if you think hes ok_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, a description of a cool rock you saw on the sidewalk back when we were all allowed out of doors, and concerns all welcome


End file.
